


The King's Study

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A take on that infamous masturbation scene in The Tudors, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, King!Eames, M/M, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Renaissance Era, Rough Oral Sex, Servant!Arthur, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's going to elevate his station any way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Study

**Author's Note:**

> I COULDN'T RESIST ANOTHER RENAISSANCE AU, OKAY? XC
> 
> [And before I'm judged harshly, know that new crime au chapter for Black Mamba comes out this Friday. XD]
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds?_

_―_ Virgil

++

+

King Eames was a man of exquisite tastes, in his palace, his person, and in those chosen to tend to his every need.

Arthur closed his eyes against the sting of the hot needle through his ears and the hooked clasp on the earrings he was given to wear, the little teardrop pearl swinging and catching in his long curls when he turned his head.

He touched the finely decorated tunic he and the other grooms were dressed in, feeling the black stitchings, the dark velvet. It was beyond a doubt the most expensive garment he’d ever worn. Even the matching hose and stockings looked to Arthur to be better suited to clothe the King himself instead of his servants.

Arthur admired his appearance in one of the King's large mirrors as he and the others awaited their instruction.

Several of the other youth's snickered from where they watched him.

“You're a fool,” one told him, leaning on his brother. “What good is a new suit of clothes and handsome face if the Queen will never see you?”

He huffed quietly as they all chuckled. He hadn't come here for the Queen and indeed neither he nor any other boy here had been picked for her eyes either. And if they had been, it would still matter nothing to Arthur. The Queen had none of the power, none of the wealth, and none of the security a king could grant. No, Arthur had not come here for her to look upon him. Whether she ever did or not, as these boys all foolishly themselves secretly hoped for, Arthur wasn't concerned. Yet, for if he played his cards right, she could and would do more than look at him. She would catch his scent on her King, she would feel the embers of his warmth in the King's bed, she would find Arthur's family gifted a house and titles… and feel his influence in every stroke of the King's quill…

Seducing a king was one thing. Pissing off a queen was something else entirely, but a boy had to eat, and it was not the Queen who held that spoon, but the King.

Arthur fixed his curls to frame his face and combed them into a more polished tumble about his shoulders. He was still running his hands along the hem of his hose and smoothing his stockings when the guard at last announced the King.

For all the speed and force with which he entered, his eyes did not miss Arthur's preening, his sharp gaze lingering on Arthur’s legs.

Arthur knelt for him slowly, his own eyes downcast with the other boys as the King observed them.

Those heavy bootfalls quickened Arthur’s heart, but he kept his palms flat on this thighs to mask their tremble, his breaths deepening, fighting for calm. Still, he shivered when the King passed him in his easy stride, his leg grazing Arthur’s sleeve, his fingers brushing a stray lock of Arthur’s hair.

Deliberately.

Arthur released the breath he’d been holding, unsure of just when his chest had tightened so.

+

Grooms and Ladies of the King and Queen were as flies on the wall of their Majesties’ quarters.

They flanked the corner of the dining room, feigning deafness as the King and Queen argued, all uniform and quiet as they waited  to serve them, hand and foot, as they were needed.

And their needs were vast, to say the least. For the King, there were servants for cleaning his rooms and grooms to pull chairs, fold back his bedding, grooms to organize and maintain the upkeep of his clothes and jewels and other grooms to dress him in them. Grooms for holding boxes, grooms for removing and replacing items for those boxes, ones to hold and position mirrors, to draw back the drapes, light candles, run errands, and on and on and for each one, there was a corresponding lady to the Queen, all ranked by their specific duty, from those responsible for their chamber pots and down the line to those summoned for their slippers.

And their positions, their duties were capable of changing on a whim, with this King, Arthur learned.

At night, as he capped several of the flames on the candelabra in the King’s study with two of the other boys, he could see the King from the corner of his eye, and hear his desperate sighs.

The grooms were all about in the rooms, here and there, but only one was with the King now, in his bedroom.

The King did not love his Queen, nor any woman, and in the days that Arthur had lit and snuffed these candles, it appeared that the King would not so much as bother to entertain so much as a pretense of lust for one.

A boy with pretty eyes and silky hair, and envious cheekbones, Robert was knelt on a cushion for his knees, his face turned away, and standing before the pot he held out at arm’s length, the King stroked his member furiously. For as degrading as the tasks were, the grooms of the chamber pot and the King’s personal hygiene held the highest honors that one could have. To be entrusted with the King’s person in the most vulnerable state, it was enviable.

Even in a struggle for release, the King looked menacing. All around Arthur, the grooms tended to their tasks as if the King weren't there just in the other room, grunting and growling. Of course, what fueled their passions left Arthur hardly interested, and what fueled Arthur's--bulk and strength and dominance worth of commanding the gods of legend--it only frightened them into feigning blindness and deafness as they boxed the King’s jewelry and stoked the fire in the hearths.

Arthur was falling behind, but he didn’t care. He stole more glances, climbing higher on the short ladder to reach his douter to the topmost candles as the King’s voice grew more and more frustrated.

His ladder wobbled. He gasped, steadying himself. When he looked back to the King, he was surprised to find their gazes locked.

It was improper, it was offensive, the highest breach of etiquette Arthur could have committed, but before he could pull his eyes away and utter his apologies, the King was coming, hard, and he was staring at Arthur with a look that required no explanation.

+

The next night, Arthur was not surprised to find himself pulled aside by their coordinator.

He clenched his fists behind him, ready to be excused permanently from his post, but he frowned upon seeing Robert take up his candle snuffer instead of attending the King in his bedroom.

Robert was the only groom who did not pause their work to glare at Arthur being escorted towards the King’s bedroom.

Arthur hovered near the door like a shadow, his hands trembling as the King was undressed and given his nightgown.

“You,” he heard him order bluntly, “here.”

Arthur found their gazes locked once more, but there was no passion in the King’s eyes, nor his. He took a shaking breath and moved to him, bowing first under the King’s glare and then knelt, keeping the pot perched on one knee.

He studied the hearth, feeling lightheaded as he held the pot and found himself unable to breathe so close to him. He, who ruled all of England, who could and had had a collection of severed heads and whipped bodies in the Tower, whose temper was shorter and sharper than a knife. He braced his big, heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his hushed, ragged breaths ringing in Arthur’s ears.

This was what he needed. The beginnings of access, of glory, and of wielding this man’s power, it all seemed laughable now. The hand braced on his shoulder could crush his neck and what would the world know of Arthur, then? Just a foolish boy too big for his own breeches, and forgotten. A speck of dust on the floor some other groom would sweep away.

That hand gripped him before his shoulder was released. Arthur took a deep breath, but he didn’t dare move, except… he wanted to… No. It was an unnecessary risk to look upon the King’s face when not granted permission. How severe would his punishment be to glance at his shaking hand and the length it held?

Above him the King growled, startling him. He glanced at the floor in front of them, at the King’s slippers and the candles’ shadows of him. He licked his lips.

He gasped as the King’s hand plunged into his hair, sending lightning strikes of pleasure down’ Arthur’s spine as well as fear. He closed his eyes as the King moaned, petting and raking his nails over Arthur’s nape and up again into his curls before that hand gripped his chin, roughly commanding him without a word to look up at the King.

Arthur’s lip was touched, stroked hard by that thumb before it hooked over his bottom teeth. He slid the pot to the floor, his heart pounding, body dizzy and trembling as he dared to move it aside, his lips closing over that thumb, swirling it with his tongue.

The King was lightning quick, gripping his throat in a tight hold. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, choking out a frightened whimper. Horrified, he removed his hand from the King’s thigh.

“Put it back.”

“Majesty?”

His jaw was gripped harder, the King panting and quiet as he stressed, “Put it back.”

He watched his shaking hand plant itself back, holding the lace and gold threaded hem of his nightgown where it was hiked up and caught on the King’s pulsing length. His eyes lingered, hungry before he swallowed and lifted his gaze slowly.

He let the King touch his lips again, surprised and emboldened by that softer touch. He kissed them, sucking lightly on their fingerpads, dizzier still when the King opened his mouth and guided his darkening crown to them, the bead of the pre-spending wetting his mouth. His hair was gripped, his lips filled, throat stroked as he sucked his length, feeling its weight and girth on his tongue, choking when its crown pushed at the back of his throat.

He held the King’s thighs, groaning and trapped in those big hands. His vision blurred when he blinked up at him, his lips stretched further the more of the length was forced in. He moaned and bobbed his head, at once earning a pleased, gravelled sound from above. It filled the space around them, even as it felt as if the world had collapsed around them, and in this little space, this heat, the King clung to his curls, his thighs trembling with restraint.

Arthur pushed back suddenly, panting for air. He licked spit from his lips and moved to kneel closer, panting up at the face of rage, but he wasn’t afraid. Nothing stood between his mouth and the King’s pleasure and the King was throbbing now, desperate for relief, for him.

“Majesty,” he breathed, raking his nails over his thighs, “I am not so easily broken. Use me, to your pleasure, as you wish.”

He opened his mouth wide, taken roughly. He whined as his hair was pulled, but there was nowhere for him to go now. He held the King’s thighs to keep from falling back, his face crushed, it felt, his throat no match for the pounding it was given, but he took it, swallowing when he could and catching air in the nest of sandy curls thick around the base of the King’s cock.

He could feel his cheeks wet with strained tears, his hairline sweating, his chin wet as well as he choked and gagged, sucking only harder when the King’s balls touched his chin. He held them in his grip, kneading them until the King’s grip in his hair brought more tears to his eyes.

The King’s thrusts slowed suddenly, his stroking tickling Arthur’s tongue. He hollowed his cheeks, moaning deeply as he kissed that crown and licked his length’s underside. It was the only interval he was granted. The King tucked Arthur’s hair behind his ears and held their reddened shells and pushed past his swollen lips again, grunting feverishly as he increased his pace and thrust harder.

His moans were clipped as he choked. It only spurned the King on, further past his aching throat. He could taste him, his bitter prespending filling his mouth for him to only swallow it down. He closed his eyes, aware now as he shifted on his knees that he was hard between his legs. He pressed his palm over it, moaning deeper, but he dared not to touch himself unless granted to.

He choked as fingers traced down his cheek to his throat. The King’s thumb traced over his Adam’s apple as it bobbed, feeling under his jaw to where he filled Arthur so totally.

He released a shuddering moaning, grabbing Arthur’s throat then as their eyes met once more.

His hot release could have scalded Arthur’s throat and scorched down to his belly. He felt fevered as the King’s length pulsed and twitched, his balls emptying themselves. And Arthur swallowed it down as best as he could, his hand covering his mouth to hide the rope of spit and come that slipped free, tethered to the King’s slit still, as he gasped for air. He collapsed forward, propped up only by his hands as the King squeezed the very last drops against his lips.

He let him breech his lips again, licking the bitter come clean and sucking on his slit.

He sat back, leaning against the bed. As the King regained his composure, Arthur touched his lips and throat, his tongue thick and numb in his mouth.

His eyes fluttered closed with that familiar hand sweeping back his wild curls, its knuckles grazed his flushed cheek. He was too afraid to meet that gaze now, unsure of what he’d find.

“Leave.”

He gasped without a sound, his stomach twisting in knots. He lifted himself on weak knees, bowing slowly. “Majesty.” His voice was cracked, weak. He clutched the empty pot to his chest, hurrying to return it to the washroom before he took his leave.

+

The King’s release seemed to weigh in his stomach like dried mortar. He loathed returning to his candle ladder.

“You.” The King shocked them all when he stood before the grooms personally, his eyes focused on Arthur alone. He turned to enter his bed chamber, leaving behind a study full of staring grooms, all eyeing him with suspicion as he moved to follow the King.

He waited as the King was undressed. Arthur studied the floor in front of his feet, waiting to be summoned for the pot.

“What is your name, boy?”

He glanced up, bowing quickly. “Arthur, your Majesty,” he whispered, already feeling a lump in his throat forming. He stood aside when the other grooms were dismissed, his hands shaking anew when he sought to fetch the pot.

“Arthur.”

He nearly tripped over his own feet, bowing again. “Majesty?”

“Come here.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, but he looked where he was called, surprised. “Majesty?”

The King eyed him from the bed, the covers turned down, a space beside him lay waiting.

For him.

A million thoughts raced through his mind, the lump thicker, the nerves in him all catching fire.

He took a step forward. And then another, lifting his knee to perch it on the bed’s edge, pausing.

But the King only uttered one command, his gazed drawn to Arthur’s groin before flicking back up to his face. “Disrobe. For me.”

Arthur took a deep breath, a smile tickling the corner of his lips. It grew wider, the only outward sign that his body’s tension was melting away bit by bit.

He’d done it. He was in.

He huffed out a breathless laugh, nervous still, but ready. He tugged on the strings of his tunic’s collar, pulling them loose as he whispered back, “Yes, your Majesty.”

+

++

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> For questions, inspiration tags, and more for this fic and others, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com


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